


screen & pass

by justlikeswitchblades, Plume_Sombre, sannlykke, stephanericher, thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alcohol, Implied Sexual Content, KNB x NBA spoilers, M/M, Minor Aomine Daiki/Kagami Taiga, Possible urbanphobia triggers, Replace spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plume_Sombre/pseuds/Plume_Sombre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: You think you know a guy; you know you're in love with him. And then he trades Jay-Z for a bunch of hillbillies.(team nijihimu's MR2 entry for SASO 2017)





	screen & pass

**Author's Note:**

> Idioms used were: 1) 'meeting a buddha in hell' (meaning: you'll often find help in unexpected places), and 2) 'ball's in your court' (meaning: it's your responsibility now; it's up to you.)

40.7754° N, 73.9869° W

Tatsuya has never held himself in high esteem when it came to keep his living space clean. Always putting off laundry to the point where his hamper overflowed, even now, when his building has its own machines in the basement. Letting dirty dishes rest in the sink over a road trip, coming back to near scummy scenes. It's not like he wants it to be dirty, but there's something comforting about coming back his own mess. About chipping away at it with his own two hands, that he can't help returning to.

If someone new walked into Tatsuya's apartment today, they'd probably think he was a victim of burglary, and he'd be tempted to agree. _This_ state of disarray is a step beyond his concept of normal.

His chest of drawers is coughing up t-shirts and underwear onto the bedroom floor; the clothes in the closet look like they're about to slip from their hangers; his sneaker collection’s turned over and kicked about, as if it belonged to a busy family of five.

There's an abstract in the kitchen, pieces of ceramic mug scattered across the tile. A mess of wires in the living room, a small but noticeable vacancy of a formerly present PS4, the TV turned slightly, matte screen illuminated by sunlight. All because Shuuzou turned down an extension of his rookie contract in Brooklyn, signing on instead to seven years in Oklahoma. Fucking _Oklahoma_ of all places! Tatsuya doesn't even know what’s _in_ Oklahoma City; he's only been there twice, in a hotel and the arena mostly. A red-faced Shuuzou yelled at him to _CHECK FUCKING TRIPADVISOR!_ , but that was a few hours ago, anyway. Shuu is on his way to the airport, or on a plane, or at least holed up in a hotel for the next few days until the Thunder call for him.

Tatsuya’s just come back from the gym in his building, legs sore from pounding down the treadmill for however many minutes—he tried to not watch the clock. He doesn't want to feel anything other than numbness, his muscles screaming from being pushed like this in the middle of the offseason, sweat-soaked sleeveless shirt growing uncomfortably damp under the A/C. The initial anger has subsided, giving way to a fuzzy, but ultimately visible future of higher rent and less expensive grocery store runs, an image of himself packing up the remainder of Shuu’s possessions and shipping them to whatever suburb he settles down in. Part of him wonders what would be different, if he had found out about it from Shuuzou himself instead of a Google alert, if his call hadn't come a few seconds too late. Maybe words like “long distance” would've been tossed around; maybe they wouldn't. For once in his life, Tatsuya doesn't feel like dwelling on the past.

Another first is Tatsuya wanting to clean his apartment. Sort of. What he really feels is a magnetic pull to the corkboard mounted above the garbage can in their—in the kitchen. He nudges the bigger chunks of mug out of the way with a socked foot, walking to it. One by one, he pulls out the pushpins, letting the contents drift into the garbage’s gaping maw. An overexposed Polaroid, taken by Alex when she came to visit after Tatsuya got drafted, dragging them out to all the tourist spots. A ticket to the Nets’ attempt at a playoff run, another to some Tony-sweeping show. A receipt for their most exorbitant dinner to date; of course they kept track.

Tatsuya doesn't feel abandoned as much as he feels misled. By giving up one of its occupants, his home has shrunken; there are places that belonged to them that he won't be able to visit alone. Shuu had lived here a whole year before; he showed Tatsuya around. He made New York his home, and then he gave it and Tatsuya up so easily. 

You think you know a guy; you know you're in love with him. And then he trades Jay-Z for a bunch of hillbillies.

40.6514° N, 73.9711° W

The air in the hotel room was getting a bit too stuffy for Shuuzou, so he left his teammates and decided to take a walk. It's only six in the evening, but the court down the street is oddly empty. He'd know—of all the places they could have ended up in New York, it had to be in Brooklyn, that area, that street. Shuuzou is pretty sure someone hates him.

(He won't jinx it by saying out loud who he thinks it is.)

People might tell him to find another hobby and stop spending every single minute of his waking hours dribbling and jumping, but basketball has been present in his life for so long; it's integrated in his mind. Maybe not so much as Aomine, but still. There are a few players on the court; the match looks about finished, and neither team looks really exhausted. They're probably playing friendly games, with nothing at stake.

Shuuzou blinks. A second later, he sees what he wanted to avoid.

One of the things that struck him when he first met Tatsuya was his beauty. Tatsuya can't _not_ look good. Anytime, anywhere, anything; it's as if some god decided that this man should appear at his best in front of everyone without fail. It seems kind of unfair to the rest of the world's population, but Shuuzou can't tear his gaze away from the graceful movements of a three-pointer, let alone the way Tatsuya's lips curve in a sort of satisfied grin, as faint as it is.

Two years.

They make eye contact. When people watch close enough, they're bound to be noticed by the players; it's a fact Shuuzou has learned to live with ever since his family began showing up at official matches. He doesn't feel as upset as he thought he would; perhaps the surprise he sees on Tatsuya's face makes it easier to confront the situation.

He steps forward while Tatsuya excuses himself and closes the distance between them. The surprise has been replaced by a quiet uneasiness, stiff on all edges.

“Shuu,” Tatsuya greets him, his voice smooth yet scraping.

“Tatsuya,” Shuuzou says, just as nervously, if not more.

He's seen photos of Tatsuya’s team, but no photo is the same as looking right into that fierce grey gaze, gauging him. It hasn't changed; still determined, collected, a hint of warmth to show he's not being scornful, but not overly friendly. It pains Shuuzou to know that he's on the receiving end of such a look, but he probably deserves it.

“What are you doing here?” Tatsuya asks, casually. “I thought you'd be gone for seven years.”

Shuuzou can't help wincing when the words hit him straight in the face. “Uh, yeah, I was just passing for... a job.”

Tatsuya looks at him curiously, like he just discovered a facet of Shuuzou he wasn't expecting.

“What kind of job?”

A peculiar skepticism drips from his words, but Shuuzou doesn't pay attention to it. Instead, he scratches his nose, a habit he has never gotten rid of, and judging by Tatsuya's slight twitch of his lips, he noticed too.

“I didn't have a choice, alright?” He grumbles. “Something about my name and rainbow shoes...”

And then Shuuzou is taken completely off guard when the genuine and clear laugh echoes in the chill evening—a sound that makes his heart flutter and his whole body float. There's still some reservation, but the action alone speaks for itself and Shuuzou finds himself grinning sheepishly.

“Well, it's probably lively with the Thunder, if you sign a contract for _that_ kind of shoe,” Tatsuya remarks.

“They just find one good joke and they never shut up about it.”

“It's an easy one to make.”

Tatsuya is right, so Shuuzou just shrugs. For a moment, he forgets they’ve barely seen each other in two years, save for three regular season games, neither big enough for the ASG. There’s something reassuring in thinking that maybe they didn't change that much despite their separation, that Shuuzou remembers how to read Tatsuya and how to direct the conversation, even if he's at a loss and is trying not to stumble over the mess of his emotions.

Tatsuya is quiet, looking around the court and watching the players; they must be from the neighborhood and enjoying themselves in a game, thrilled at the prospect of playing with someone of such caliber, if they know who Tatsuya is. Shuuzou swallows.

“Hey. You'll probably see me and my ugly shoes plastered all over the city soon, but don't just remember me as that guy who accepted such a ridiculous contract, yeah?”

He may be asking for too much, but for the longest time he's been hung up about what happened and the what-ifs, so if he can seize a chance like this one, he won't be picky.

Tatsuya's only answer is a smile, one that snakes around Shuuzou's heart and squeezes, the intent to hurt unclear, though he knows this isn't a fully positive feeling.

“I'll see what I can do when the posters are out,” Tatsuya answers, cryptic as always.

This isn't flat-out rejection, so Shuuzou nods, shoots him one last smile, and turns around.

(Maybe he didn't jinx it after all.)

41.5111° N, 81.6118° W

Tatsuya isn’t jealous. Taiga is one of, if not the most worthy person he knows, and no one else deserves to be as happy as he looks right now, glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun and everything to do with the smile he can't keep off his face. For a moment, Tatsuya's thoughts flicker to a day nearly two decades ago, where two rings (far too big then, now far too small) had also been exchanged, the sun shining down on their shoulders. 

He isn’t jealous, not really. It's just that he's twenty-nine and not getting any younger, realizing everyday that achieving his childhood dreams doesn’t get him anywhere close to contentment. Maybe it's how he's built, always wanting what he can't have, until he has it, and then he's wanting something else. Others might find it admirable, how he's insatiable; personally, he's tired. And on the occasions he isn't too prideful to admit it, he’s lonely, too. 

A feeling that isn't abated when he's the best man going stag at his brother’s wedding, his last relationship—if hooking up on the weekends could even be called that—expiring months too early to provide him with a date.

But he smiles for the pictures, and his smile isn’t fake. The joy that surrounds him is infectious, staving off the loneliness for a short while. He piles into a car with some of the wedding party, catches up with their old friends, gives his speech at the reception with equal parts mirth and sincerity, and with every second that passes, feels a little less melancholy about being here on his own. 

He's almost positive he won't end up returning to the open bar when someone pulls up the chair beside him, and in a familiar voice, asks, "This seat taken?"

Tatsuya looks up, though he doesn't need the confirmation. "Shuu," he breathes, which Shuuzou takes as a yes, sitting with a sizable amount of distance between them. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"I knew you would," says Shuuzou, though he frowns immediately, as if he hadn't intended it to slip out. He switches gears, in typical Shuuzou fashion. "Aomine's a thoughtful kouhai, apparently." He leans back, and he's doing a good job of hiding it but Tatsuya can tell he's catching his breath. "Think he'll kill me for being late?"

"I doubt he's noticed. Everyone in the room could turn into basketballs and the two of them would still be staring into each other's eyes."

"That bad, huh?"

"Trust me, I've had front row seats to this for the past few years." Saying this aloud serves to remind Tatsuya that it's been that long since he and Shuuzou have seen each other; it's something he tries to not dwell on, and the atmosphere isn’t helping. "Not wearing your rainbow kicks tonight?"

"Ha ha, very funny." Shuuzou puts on a show of nonchalance, but there's heat rising to his cheeks. "Got any more jokes for me, wise guy?"

"That's all for now. I'll tell you if I think of more," says Tatsuya, tearing his gaze away from the sight. He's not wearing the armor he had at their last meeting, his defenses lowered by vows, flowers, slow songs. It's hard to look at Taiga and Daiki fooling around on the dance floor and not think, _that could've been you and me_. 

"Hey," says Shuuzou suddenly, after an ample silence, and the soft uncertainty in his voice tells Tatsuya he's not the only one affected by it all, even before hearing the question. "You wanna dance?"

He looks at Shuuzou, but Shuuzou's already looking away, as if he already knows the answer. "I don't think that's a good idea." It's Tatsuya's idea of revenge, the way he pauses before he says, "But yes, let's."

Shuuzou's scowling at him as they stand; the scowl stays as they take to the floor. Tatsuya hasn't forgotten that Shuuzou has two left feet. 

"It's all right, just let me lead."

"Don't you always?" mutters Shuuzou, his hands tentative as they settle on Tatsuya. Tatsuya's ensuing smile is papercut sharp—unintentionally so. 

"Not when it matters."

They're both quiet after that, and then the song ends, and Satsuki's cutting in to say hello to her senpai and Alex is whisking Tatsuya away as the only person in the room who can outdrink her, and before he knows it, the night's over, and he and Shuuzou don't get to say goodbye.

39.9554° N, 75.1583° W

Shuuzou’s always tried to keep his living space clean, despite the drunken escapades that sometimes accompany Fridays and parties that go well into the night. He’s not a young twentysomething anymore, always ready to go at the slightest provocation, but at thirty-two, moving to a whole new place isn’t the end of the world.

At least Philadelphia isn’t entirely foreign to him. He’s been here a couple times—mostly in the city center, but it’s enough. He stands in his new apartment, the bedroom spanking clean and empty—save for the pile of boxes in the corner and items strewn about, the bed shoved in the corner opposite, and the even larger piles of boxes out in the hallway, cluttering the living room. It’ll become one _hell_ of a mess within the week if he doesn’t start cleaning up now.

But first, Shuuzou has a date with the DMV.

As much as he’d like to not claim sentimentality, the fact of the matter is that his Buick Regal is still parked outside, looking quite under the weather from the three-day drive. His agent had called him crazy (“Yes, Nijimura, there aren’t any direct flights, but what the hell?”) as if he hadn’t seen Shuuzou’s jitters on the plane before. Yeah, so what if it’s much better now? He’d needed to breathe the open air and see the wide expanses of cornfields and rolling hills one last time before he tumbled headlong into living on the coast again.

Shuuzou pats the Buick on his way down the street; thankfully there’s a bus stop nearby. He’ll let himself relax a bit today.

Regrettably, it’s become somewhat of a recurring joke the universe plays on Shuuzou: he moves somewhere new, and immediately finds himself sidetracked. He should’ve listened to his phone and gone to the nearest office like any normal person would, but a decade and a half later and he still finds himself taking his father’s advice of _taking the long way_. Some things just don’t change.

After getting off the bus he’d wandered down to Chinatown for a bite. TripAdvisor had suggested a surprisingly good dim sum place that had opened since his last visit—it’s not Flushing-level, but it’ll do, especially after Oklahoma. Then he’d wandered into the DMV and promptly found himself stuck in a circle of hell Dante hadn’t warned about. 

By the time Shuuzou actually emerges from the building it is, predictably, nearing dusk. So much for trying to get any decorating done; he’ll probably pass out as soon as he gets home. Shuuzou wearily traces his steps back to the bus stop, the registration papers neatly tucked in his shirt pocket.

And then luck, serendipity, whatever Midorima would have called it back in the day (Shuuzou doesn’t keep up that much with his underclassmen anymore; he sees enough to get by) he stands at the stop only to have a car—sleek, white and all too familiar—come up to the curb. A split second of instinctual _aw fuck, I’m about to get mugged_ is replaced with surprise as the window rolls down and there Tatsuya is, sunglasses and all, ignoring the angry honks from behind.

“Hey there,” Tatsuya says, completely unbothered. “You need a lift?”

“How did you know,” Shuuzou asks, once they’re— _he’s_ —close enough to home that it feels possible to breathe again. “You been stalking me?”

Tatsuya suppresses a laugh, but Shuuzou can tell it’s genuine. “I got tickets for the charity game at Penn. Decided to swing by for dinner before heading back, and well—thought I recognized you on the side of the road.”

“Oh.”

In the wake of the move Shuuzou had momentarily disengaged—not completely, but just enough that something like that would slip his mind. It’s not like Tatsuya had told him he’d be coming, but. He glances at the takeout box in the back seat, as if awaiting confirmation.

“We always seem to run into each other, don’t we?” Tatsuya continues. In the rearview mirror, Shuuzou can see a smile on his face—wry, but a smile all the same. Whatever anger that had been in that outburst had taken seven long years to settle, with all the run-ins in-between to mitigate it. Tatsuya may hold grudges—and Shuuzou wouldn’t say he hadn’t deserved some of it—but right now…

Right now, in this moment, all Shuuzou can think about is how beautiful Tatsuya still is, even when he’s hiding behind sunglasses (like Shuuzou himself) in case someone might recognize him. Though this is _Shuuzou’s_ city now—a realization that only finally seems to hit while he’s sitting in the back of an ex’s car.

“Yeah, you’re always arriving in the nick of time to save me.”

He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that—impulsively worded and embarrassingly fond. This time, with the car stopped in front of a red light two blocks from home, Tatsuya takes off his sunglasses and turns around.

“Lucky you, right?”

“Yeah,” Shuuzou says quietly, staring at the lights reflected in Tatsuya’s visible eye. 

“Lucky me.”

 

Tatsuya has some sort of preoccupation with Polaroids—probably something he picked up from Alex. Or a natural extension of his thing with selfies, something Shuuzou could well attest to. The old corkboard they’d kept had been his idea, after all.

The picture is a little overexposed, streetlight reflecting off the chrome plates as they tried their best to crowd their faces under the lighting. It won’t be something Tatsuya posts to his public Twitter, or maybe it would—Shuuzou’s gotta wait to find out, though some overeager part of him thinks, why not check right now?

_Right now_ he feels fifteen again, a little drunk off memories, a little stupid. He tacks the photo onto the corkboard anyway, because what else is he gonna do?

40.7754° N, 73.9869° W

Tatsuya doesn’t believe in fate (he has pride in his achievements; he won’t let some higher entity own them) but somehow he keeps running into Shuu. Their first meeting back in LA so long ago, the streetball match, the wedding, seeing him lost all over again in Philly. Maybe it’s not even a series of coincidences; maybe they’ve both been hanging onto this, walking the same sort of path. And if it’s just going to keep happening, then, well. That’s not the reason Tatsuya’s invited Shuu to stay with him while the Sixers are in New York for a few days; they’re both thirty-four and sick of hotels and Tatsuya could use the company; it’s the way things have been since after Shuu came back to the east coast. It’s a little weird, sleeping in the bed he used to share with Shuu and having Shuu on the other side of the wall in the spare bedroom, but they’ve done weirder things. 

The coffeemaker beeps; Shuu gets to his feet and Tatsuya’s thrust back in time, to the five thousand times this had happened when they were ten years younger and in love, and he almost leans over the back of the couch to kiss Shuu on his way by. Shuu looks like he’s about to do the same, and he doesn’t blush as easily as he once had, but the pink on his cheeks is still there (and he’s always looked at Tatsuya that way, from the first time they’d met).

“Hey,” Shuu says, setting down the coffees (black for Tatsuya, sugar granules still floating at the top for Shuu). “It’s a little late, but. I’m sorry for signing that contract and leaving without telling you.”

Tatsuya’s never not going to feel raw about Shuu blindsiding him, even though he’d deserved some of that (he’d moved to a different fucking country the first time around, and yeah they were sixteen and it had only been two years, but still). He’s let go of a lot, the hurt, the anger, the things Shuu hasn’t apologized for.

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya, with a half-smile. “A little late, but you’re forgiven.”

Shuu’s face is serious, worn but relieved. Tatsuya sips the coffee; it’s strong the way Shuu always makes it (he loses count of the spoonfuls of grounds he’s added to the filter, always putting in extra for insurance). They can’t go back to this, to the way things were, even without taking into account the almost uncommutable distance from here to Center City Philadelphia. It’s not as if doing something now will collapse them into the same place they were when they left off, or that it won’t implode the relationship they’ve rebuilt so carefully—but the ball’s in Tatsuya’s court; it’s his move.

“Shuu?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to give us another try?”

Shuu exhales slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

There’s a lot to do, things to plan, boundaries to set or bump up against. It’s not quite that simple but for now it’s enough, to sit here and let themselves look at each other the way they’ve wanted to. Shuu’s coffee is almost gone when he stands up and fishes a crumpled program out of his pocket, from yesterday’s Sixers-Knicks game (at 34, neither of them is a marquee star; the players pictured on the program are both almost a decade and a half younger than they are). 

Tatsuya follows Shuu to the corkboard, mostly empty but for the invitation to Taiga’s wedding, a torn-out page from a shoe catalog featuring Tatsuya’s signature shoe at a deep discount (right above Shuu’s, at a similar price), Alex’s ticket to the All-Star game in Philly last year, and a bunch of old Metrocards with less than a dollar in balance on each.

“You got rid of everything, huh?”

“Almost,” says Tatsuya.

One picture, the polaroid Alex had taken, had escaped Tatsuya’s reflexive anger, trapped between the garbage and the wall; he’d found it a week later and kept it, tucked behind the corkboard out of sight. He pulls it out; it’s no worse for wear. Their faces, so much younger, so clearly happy, stare back; Shuu wraps his arm around Tatsuya’s waist. 

“I’ll bring mine; we can add to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> photos by stephanericher, art by sannlykke and thimble


End file.
